


let me fall (to fly again)

by crownedmayhem



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Background Sunaosa, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, implied panic attack, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25863421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedmayhem/pseuds/crownedmayhem
Summary: Miya Atsumu is but another drop in the ocean. He is drowning, drowning, drowning in a sea of endless blue.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu
Comments: 34
Kudos: 220
Collections: kagsivity's fic archive





	let me fall (to fly again)

**Author's Note:**

> please mind the tags!!
> 
> take care of yourselves :((

The wind is heavy today. It ruffles his hair as he walks along the bridge.

Cars drift on beside him, unaware of his presence and his goal. Some could tell, probably, considering his state of dishevelment. Maybe they just didn’t care. 

That’s okay.

Nobody cares about Atsumu, these days. He can’t remember if that was intentional or if it was just another misfortune. Time seems to blend together recently. He’s not even sure what day it is.

The sky is a dull grey, clouded and indefinite. It stretches on and on, stopped by nothing; listless movement drags it through the vast openness, but Atsumu thinks it looks stationary. Stuck.

Coincidence. Atsumu feels the same way.

Through his lungs, the air is cold. He hasn’t been outside in a while. He’s unused to the sharpness he inhales. Even through the hoodie he’d thrown on, he feels it bite at his skin.

If it tore through, would it find the pollution in his veins?

Atsumu has never seen the insides of his body. Hard to when most of his skin was on show from wearing shorts and jerseys a majority of the time. He knows a lot of people would probably be happy if he knew what colour trickled from his flesh. He doesn’t blame them. The only time people cared was when they wanted to hate him.

That’s okay.

He hasn’t seen underneath, but he knows it would be tar: black, contaminated, _dirty_. He could save them the trouble of wondering. He could just tell them because he knows. He knows.

_My blood is disgusting. My blood is filthy._

_I am a parasite. I am sick. I am unwanted._

He has reached the midpoint—the distance that leads out from either side of him is too far to travel back.

It’s too late—he has reached the end.

He is where he wants to be, resting on the metal railing and looking out at immeasurable, boundless space. Where the sky connects to the sea, it blurs together; the depth of the sea is the depth of the heavens.

Atsumu wonders.

He won’t be going to heaven.

That’s okay.

He’s come to terms with that fact. When he’d stepped out of the house earlier and travelled here, it had settled in his head like dirt piling on a grave.

Miya Atsumu does not deserve to go to heaven.

He says to himself he never wanted to go in the first place. The thought feels bitter on his tongue—he doesn’t remember the taste of anything else.

The railing is cold, despite the layer of fabric between his body and the metal. At some point, he’s going to reach into his pocket and take out the paper nestled within, and he’s going to put it on the floor. He’s going to take his shoes off and leave them on top, so the paper doesn’t fly away. He’s going to touch the railing with his bare hands and feel the frost climb up his bones. He’s going to hoist himself up and climb over. He’s going to look down at the wide berth of water beneath him and maybe his heart will be in his mouth, maybe his eyes will sting, maybe he’ll forget to breathe—

Maybe he’ll find peace.

Atsumu takes his eyes off the horizon to look around.

Is he really going to do this?

His eye catches on the direction he came from. The city is visible from here and Atsumu’s chest tightens with his memories of home. He thinks of Osamu, strong and resilient, who’s had to put up with him for far too many years.

Atsumu doesn’t know what time it is, but he knows Osamu would be awake.

He thinks of Osamu and Onigiri Miya and Suna Rintarou and a long and arduous childhood. He thinks of his brother, always by his side, even when he left to pursue his dream. He thinks of his brother’s voice, mocking and fond and annoyed.

His lungs constrict and he wishes he could hear Osamu, one last time.

But he can’t do that to his brother. This will hurt enough already. Atsumu harbours a lot of guilt, but doing that to Osamu—would the ninth circle of hell be enough for him?

His fingers fiddle with the sleeves of his hoodie. The paper in his pocket bears the weight of the world.

He looks down at the concrete beneath him instead of at his surroundings, instead of thinking about what he’s leaving behind.

He’s not sorry for choosing to leave.

_Not when nobody wants him here. When he can’t stand himself being here._

He’s sorry for the trouble and the hassle.

_Even in death, his existence is a burden._

He’s sorry it turns out like this.

That it’s the only way.

But that—that’s okay.

Osamu will be okay. His teammates will be okay. Everyone he knows and has ever loved will be okay.

They’ll be okay, because Atsumu doesn’t matter and in the end, he’ll be forgotten. It’ll be the hardest for Osamu, he knows. He’s written to give most of the things in his name to his brother; a silent apology for the years he’s had to suffer—because even like this, Atsumu is a _coward_ —and for making him deal with his bullshit even now.

Osamu has Suna though, so Atsumu thinks he’ll be okay in the end. Osamu has a lot of people. Kita will be kind to him and Aran will help too. Suna will love him and support him and tell him it will be okay.

Suna will be good for Osamu and Atsumu can only be grateful.

Osamu deserves the best and Atsumu knows he’ll have it.

He also knows he is not in that picture.

That’s okay.

The world will keep spinning and the sun will rise and set and the leaves will fade from red to green and that’s okay.

The world ends for nobody but Atsumu.

That’s okay.

The tears in his eyes suggest nothing to the contrary—the wind is just harsh.

His pocket buzzes. He checks it and finds a notification from Suna. It’s for their Snapchat streak.

It’s a picture of him making a dumb face with Osamu in the corner, unaware of his secret photographer, captioned ‘we made it to 100 again.’ The lighting isn’t glowing, nor is it golden bright from a burning sun; conversely, it’s dim and unflattering, working with the bad angle to culminate into a messy shot. 

Normally, Atsumu would snap him back and insult his skills. Now, it stirs something warm in his chest. 

He brushes away the wetness from his eyes.

Suna Rintarou is a good guy. He may laugh at Atsumu from time to time (all the time) and he may record him and Osamu fighting instead of helping, but Atsumu knows Suna Rintarou is a good person. His quips are funny, even if they’re a bit too truthful at times, but Suna can’t be blamed for not knowing that Atsumu takes things to heart more than he should. The blame lies solely on Atsumu, as it always does; if he’d genuinely ask, Suna would stop, but Atsumu doesn’t because he’s not trying to ruin people’s fun over something so minor.

Even if it wasn’t minor, Atsumu likely wouldn’t. Things at his expense don’t matter because Atsumu is worth less than the effort it would take. The blame is only his.

It had taken a long time for him to accept that.

Atsumu is worth less.

Atsumu is worthless.

That’s okay.

_Is it?_

He doesn’t know what compels him to write the text. His hands shake as he types. He ignores it.

**future brother in law**

hey rin  
you know  
osamu loves you so fuckin much  
he’s an idiot but he looks at you like you’re his entire world  
you guys will be okay  
take care of him for me

He sees Suna’s little character head pop up as he reads the messages. He turns his screen off before Suna can reply; even if he does, Atsumu won’t be there to see it.

He thinks briefly about messaging Osamu too, but the note in his pocket protests. He won’t, then.

The concrete is ice-cold under his socked feet when he takes off his shoes. He wonders how strange he looks, standing shoeless on the side of a bridge. None of the passing cars stop or slow and Atsumu would laugh if his body didn’t feel so numb. He blames the temperature, even if it’s not that low. His fingers feel frozen as he places the note under his shoes.

When he touches the railing, it sends a jolt of frost to his core. It’s as cold as he’d thought. He’s needlessly careful as he climbs over the railing to stand on the outer edge. Looking out, closer to the waves, it hits him.

He’s doing this.

It’s not passive imagination, nor is it a lingering thought meandering in his head as he lies in bed, willing sleep to take him.

He’s standing two hundred feet above an infinite sea, watching the water ripple. All he can see is deep, deep blue and the air has been punched from his lungs. He’s drowning before he’s even fallen in.

He closes his eyes.

Atsumu is not okay.

Atsumu has not been okay for a long time.

Atsumu—

His phone rings and it’s like pulling his head out from below. His inhale is stuttered and he trembles, pulling his phone out. He’d forgotten to leave it with his shoes.

It’s Osamu.

Atsumu could ignore the call. He could throw his phone into the ocean, alongside himself. He could pick up.

His heart is pounding in his ears and a breeze brushes by and all Atsumu can feel is the emptiness in his chest.

“Atsumu?” Osamu’s voice crackles through Atsumu’s phone speaker. “Where are you?”

Atsumu might be imagining it, but he thinks there’s an undercurrent of worry in his brother’s voice. “I’m out,” he says, willing his voice to be even. He doesn’t know why he answered, but it’s too late to hang up without alerting Osamu that something is wrong. “‘Samu. I won’t... I won’t be back for a while, yeah?”

“No. You will,” Osamu’s voice wobbles slightly. “I took the day off. ‘m makin’ your favourite onigiri and you hafta be home to eat it fresh.”

“Go to work, ‘Samu.”

“No,” Osamu says, stronger than before. “No. I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Atsumu. I’m not leavin’ you alone.”

His words wrench an unsteady breath from Atsumu’s mouth. “Are you drivin’?”

“Rin’s drivin’,” Osamu answers quietly. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re doin’, ‘Tsumu, but I—I’m scared, okay.” A few beats of silence pass as Osamu sounds like he’s trying to collect himself. “We’re twins. You’re my brother, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Maybe I don’t show it enough, but, shit, ‘Tsumu, I’m really proud of ya, y’know? It’s not easy doin’ what you do and you’ve worked so hard to get where you are. You’ve come a long way, you hear? I couldn’t be prouder to say Miya Atsumu’s my fuckin’ brother.” He inhales, shaky and tense. “So you gotta come home, ‘Tsumu. You gotta come home ‘cause you deserve to be happy.”

His brother’s voice cracks on the last sentence and Atsumu feels it like a punch to the gut.

“‘Samu,” Atsumu croaks out. His throat is dry.

“You’ll be okay, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu says. “Trust me; you’ll be okay.”

“I don’t want to die, ‘Samu, I don’t—”

“You’re not—you’re not going to die, Atsumu, just”—Osamu’s voice breaks—“just hold on until I get there, okay? You’ll be okay.”

Atsumu can’t help the blinding heat that creeps from behind his eyes and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. “‘m sorry, ‘Samu,” he murmurs. “Fuck, I—I thought—I was goin’ to—”

He cuts himself off, but they both know what he was about to say.

“It’s okay, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu says. “You didn’t ‘nd that’s what matters.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu whispers. The blue of the water is suffocating, so he turns around and grips the railing hard enough that his knuckles turn white. “Yeah.”

He hears Osamu’s voice distantly through the call and another mumble—Suna. There’s more muffled sounds and Osamu comes back in the midst of static.

“Where are you on the bridge? We’re gettin’ on it now.”

Atsumu clutches the railing and turns his head. “Somewhere near the middle, I think. You’ll... you’ll see me.”

“We’ll get through it together, ‘kay, ‘Tsumu? You’ll make it; I know ya will.”

Atsumu has a hard time believing that, but he doesn’t say anything. The odd calmness he’d walked here with has disappeared and Atsumu feels like he’s been plunged under. His limbs feel like anchors dragging him down and it’s taking all his focus to stay standing. He doesn’t want to slip.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, but soon enough, he hears footsteps slamming on concrete and Osamu ends the call. Atsumu looks up and sees Osamu’s frightened eyes and his heart feels like it’s been stabbed and torn apart. His pulse is already jumping under his skin and he’s gripping the bar so hard it hurts.

“‘Tsumu,” Osamu exhales. He’s out of breath and Atsumu has never seen his brother look so harrowed.

Suna gets out of the car, leaving it on the side of the road and causing other drivers to swerve around it. Nobody stops by.

“Fuck, Atsumu,” Suna says, panicked. “Come back over this side.”

“I—I can’t,” he gets out. His head feels light and he’s still trying to blink white spots from his vision. Osamu had tried to help him through it over the phone but Atsumu couldn’t remember how to breathe and he couldn’t feel anything in his body except for the violent shudders and electricity frying his nerves.

“You can, ‘Tsumu, you can,” Osamu says, taking a step forward. He seems to hesitate then, as if scared he might cause a breeze to knock Atsumu off. “Just—just gotta get your leg up first, yeah? I’ll take your phone.”

Atsumu tries breathing slowly, attempting the breathing exercises he knows. It helps somewhat and he lifts a leg to stumble over the railing. Osamu is there before Atsumu knows what’s happening; his hand is heavy as he grabs Atsumu’s hoodie and pulls him into a crushing hug, away from the edge.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Osamu whispers into Atsumu’s shoulder, and he feels Osamu tremble. He doesn’t know if Osamu is trying to reassure himself or Atsumu anymore.

Atsumu clutches Osamu’s sweatshirt tightly, bunching the fabric in his hands. It’s warm and a stark contrast to the ice of the metal railing. His fingers are bruised with red from where his grip was too tight. He buries his face in Osamu’s neck.

He’s safe. He can be safe.

It feels like the world washes away while they hold each other and Atsumu loses track of time. He’s surrounded by Osamu and it’s like a blanket wrapping around his shoulders—he’s safe. His skin still feels frozen from exposure, his throat burns from rough air and his head is pounding, but he can be safe in Osamu’s arms, even if it’s only temporary.

Eventually, Osamu pulls back. His eyes are red. His gaze seems to roam over Atsumu’s face and his expression crumples minutely. If Atsumu hadn’t been watching just as closely, he would have missed it.

“Let’s go home, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu says.

Atsumu thinks of ‘home.’ He thinks of pale, aging walls and their old sofa; thinks of the nights spent dozing off there with Osamu, both of them ending up entwined like a misshapen pretzel. He thinks of late nights watching volleyball matches, taste testing Osamu’s new onigiri flavours, talking about Osamu’s infatuation with Suna, sometimes not talking at all and being comfortable in the silence anyway. He thinks of the bird family that’s taken up residence outside the living room window, thinks of recording Osamu feeding them and sending it to their friends. He thinks of his brother and his home and Atsumu—

Atsumu wants to go home.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

_Let’s go home._

They break apart fully and Suna is there with Atsumu’s shoes. His expression isn’t much different than his usual mask of impassiveness, but Atsumu can see the sorrow lining his face. It clutches at the small amount of air left in his lungs.

_I’m sorry._

Suna’s lips quirk at the side slightly, a silent reassurance. Somehow he knows the thought that flits through Atsumu’s mind.

Atsumu knows he doesn’t have to apologise. He knows Suna doesn’t blame him. It doesn’t stop the voice in his head or the swirl of nausea in his stomach, but—

That’s okay.

For now, that’s okay.

Atsumu piles into the backseat of the car and Osamu joins him. Suna slides into the driver’s seat and they set off. Their presence is a small comfort, and Atsumu rests his head against the window. He curls into himself and watches the light fall over Osamu’s face.

He can’t look at the scenery outside, nor the large expanse of the world through tinted glass. Atsumu doesn’t think he’ll be able to look at those things for a while without thinking back to being a step away from the edge.

That’s okay.

As the car bumps along the road, his eyes stay fixed on Osamu instead.

The storm in his stomach quiets down.

* * *

Osamu wasn’t lying when he said he’d make Atsumu’s favourite onigiri. He places it down in front of Atsumu and sits across from him.

The smell is mouthwatering and Atsumu feels his stomach rumble. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate, but he doesn’t move to touch the rice ball. His mind is tired and Atsumu doesn’t know if he has the energy to raise his arms. He wants to sleep.

“‘s okay if you take your time,” Osamu says. “‘m still gonna be here.”

Atsumu looks at Osamu and his weary eyes, his bedraggled hair, his rumpled sweatshirt, the heavy bend of his arms and the tight curve of his spine. When he looks at Osamu, he sees his twin and remembers their DNA is identical. They were both a bit more like their mother in one way.

He reaches for the onigiri. It’s good.

It takes him some time to finish it, but Osamu stays. Osamu always stays.

“How”—Atsumu winces at the dry snap of his voice—“did you know where I was?”

“You were sharin’ your Snapchat location,” Osamu answers. “After what you sent to Rin, I—“

He stops himself; he looks crestfallen. Atsumu’s hand curls and guilt throbs in his heart.

“I’m sorry, ‘Samu,” he says weakly. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Osamu tries to smile, but it comes out feeble and fatigued.

“It’s okay. You’re here now ‘nd that’s the important part,” he says. 

Atsumu fixes his gaze on a spot on the floor and watches his vision blur. “I just—everything... It was—I couldn’t—couldn’t cope.” His voice is less than a whisper. “I think I need help, ‘Samu. It’s so, so fuckin’ hard every day and I can’t do it. I can’t. I need—I need help.”

“You can do it, ‘Tsumu. I know you can.” Osamu’s voice is subdued and it shakes. “I’m here for you, yeah? We can get help. We can get all the help in the world. You’ll be okay, I promise. It’ll be okay.”

He feels Osamu’s arms wrap around him and Atsumu sinks into his embrace. He quivers as he cries and Osamu grips him tighter. Osamu’s fingers run through his hair and Atsumu just wants to be okay. He desperately, so fucking desperately, just wants to be okay.

He doesn’t want to feel so much hate and disgust for himself that it sickens him, that it makes him physically retch when he sees himself in the mirror. He doesn’t want to feel so abhorrent and unworthy, like he doesn’t deserve to be alive. He doesn’t want to hurt anymore, to wake up and feel so fucking tired.

He just wants to be good enough.

They rest there until Atsumu’s sobs peter off and Osamu presses him close one last time before disentangling. His voice is soft when he says, “Why don’t ya get some rest? We can fight the world tomorrow.”

Atsumu agrees. His bones creak as he slowly hobbles into his room. He looks at the light streaming in from his open window through exhausted eyes. Dust dances in the rays, swirling around in the deceptively still air.

He looks at his bed, the covers undone and messy. He looks at the posters on his wall, tearing and frayed and old. He looks at the volleyball in the corner and the peeling of the wallpaper behind it.

He looks at it all and collapses into bed. His head feels full of nothing and everything all at once. It’s like there’s a blank in his memory where today should be and there’s a weight on his chest he doesn’t know how to relieve.

In the end, nothing was solved. Atsumu only created more problems for himself.

He recalls the relief on Osamu’s face and the tight squeeze of his hug when he pulled him back from the edge. He thinks of Osamu’s low voice, emotional and strained, sliding over reassuring words, of Osamu saying, ‘We can fight the world tomorrow.’

He closes his eyes. Eventually, he drifts to sleep, waiting for tomorrow to come and start anew.

_‘You deserve to be happy.’_

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry
> 
> will i ever stop projecting ~~maybe~~ unlikely


End file.
